


Houndstongue

by Cherry_B



Series: Cressi Week 2k18 [3]
Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Hanahaki Disease, Higher rating due to stronger language and slight body horror, M/M, No wives/girlfriends/kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-24 21:22:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16183430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cherry_B/pseuds/Cherry_B
Summary: Houndstongue- Herbaceous plant classified as a weed. Its' flowers are described as velvety with reddish purple coloring, smooth edges and defined veins.





	Houndstongue

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone is unfamiliar with Hanahaki, it is a fictional disease which afflicts those who suffer from unrequited love. Symptoms include physical deterioration and coughing up flower petals/entire flowers. In my version it can be fatal and the option to remove the feelings is available at the cost of all memories and feelings for the one loved.

It starts with a headache. It comes and goes and doesn't seem a big deal but Cristiano does his best to let the physicians know during testing and check ups. 

They seem concerned as the weeks pass and he continues to report them but they're fleeting and random so there isn't much he can do other than jot down when they happen. Eventually talks of MRI are brought up but Cristiano refuses them because by then they have stopped. 

Instead they are replaced with a sore throat. A persistent, constantly, sore throat.

"You get that checked out yet?"

Cristiano glances at Pepe, raises an eyebrow and receives a bland look in return.

"You've been clearing your throat since we got here. We went through warm ups and practice and it's only gotten worse. So, have you had that checked out?"

Cristiano nods, busies himself with his boots and tries to stifle the noises of discomfort. He's half way done packing up when he's suddenly hit with a coughing fit. Moutinho looks over, hand half hovering over Cristiano's back looking slightly panicked. Pepe glares as he makes his way over, swatting Moutinho away.

"That's it," he snaps at him. As soon as Cristiano's coughs die down he shoves a water bottle at him and demands, "You are coming with me, get your stuff. Let's go."

 

Cristiano tries to dissuade him, truly he does, it's just the physicians in Madrid can't figure it out and maybe, he'll admit, he's starting to worry just a little. So he goes along with it right until they turn the corner and he sees Fernando Santos. He spins right back around and Pepe keeps going at first, it's a couple of steps before he realizes he's alone and he has to double back for him.

"Where are you going?" he asks a little too loud. Cristiano doesn't stop moving even as Pepe grips his wrist and tries to pull him back. 

"No," Cristiano says. 

"What do you mean no, stop acting like a baby, you need to-" 

"No!" Cristiano cuts him off, loud enough to startle Fernando who is chatting with Hector Cuper. They both look over and Cristiano swallows down a sudden panic. 

"Pepe, leave it. Real cleared me, it's fine. It's just cold symptoms."

Pepe stares at him, suspicion clear in his eyes. "You're playing with a cold?"

Cristiano makes a half hearted shrug because he doesn't want to lie but he also doesn't know if it's an actual lie. 

"You're an idiot," Pepe tells him. "I'm telling, you obsessive freak." 

Cristiano smiles at him as Pepe scurries over to Fernando and points, accusation clear in his demeanor. Fernando's face morphs from curiosity to surprise to resignation as he looks over at Cristiano. 

He's used to it, after all Cristiano is Portugal's very special breed of a problem child.

~*~*~*~*

By mid April the cough is worse. Cristiano can't stop and it's starting to to affect his mood and those around him. His constant coughing worries the staff and his teammates before it actually begins to annoy them.

"Get that looked at," Gareth tells him and Cristiano waves him off.

"Seriously," Marcelo says and Cristiano ignores him.

"Enough," Sergio tells him. He looks too serious with his mouth set in a tight line, the captain's band is a heavy weight to bear and Cristiano knows it. Sergio's had to carry it for a few years now and it's draped over his shoulders and threaded through his hair as if a crown of responsibility and 100 years of history has been placed upon him. 

He's usually an inspiring sight, rallying everyone and pushing them to give just a little more, to push just that extra inch. However standing in front of Cristiano and giving him orders over something Cristiano has tried to handle for months pushes his frustrations to the forefront.

It's not as if he enjoys the constant fatigue or the bouts of dizziness. He's not exactly jumping for joy whenever he's hit with sudden nausea. It's been a pain, a constant, irritating pain. He's tired and angry.

When he shoves Sergio it's without thought, it's a sudden wave of white hot anger and a knee jerk reaction. 

The problem is that they never quite learned to fully control themselves, they are infamous for being a little hot headed and his action doesn't sit well with Sergio. He tries to shoulder past him and finds himself shoved back. His back connects with his locker and he swings on instinct. It doesn't connect, Sergio lunges forwards and pulls him so they're face to face. 

The rest of the team has swarmed around them. Marcelo is trying to get between them, Isco is pulling Sergio back, as is Luka. Gareth is pressed flush against Cristiano, arms hooked under and up Cristiano's armpits. 

"Calm down," he murmurs over and over again until Cristiano finally hears it over the roar of the blood pounding in his ears.

Sergio is spitting mad and Nacho is trying to talk him down while Dani tries to keep the others from getting to close. It's a mad house and somewhere between trying to get at Sergio again and trying to just breathe he feels a prick of ice cold shame.

"Get your ass to Zizou," Sergio says, chest heaving. He pulls out of the grip of Isco and Luka and runs a hand through his hair and down his face. "Just go."

Cristiano frowns but doesn't say anything back, he keeps his eyes straight ahead as he walks out of the locker room. His pride is stinging as he walks out the door, the rest of the team dead silent behind him. 

*~*~*~*~*

They are disciplined. It's all internal because it wouldn't look good if the captain and vice captain had a fight just weeks before El Clasico. Sergio comes up to him two days later and apologizes, expresses concern for Cristiano and offers his support when Cristiano tells him he's had a chest cold for months.

"They don't know what it is actually."

Cristiano scratches his cheek, trying to downplay it but Sergio looks even more concerned at that.

"Have you talked to your personal physicians about this?"

Cristiano nods, "Don't worry about it, it's not affecting us. I'm sure it'll go away on it's own."

Sergio looks unconvinced but when Cristiano offers nothing else he nods.

"I can give you the number to who we use," he offers.

"Don't worry about me, and don't worry about what's coming to up. I can't handle it. Trust in me."

*~*~*~*~*

He's fine. He proves it a day later with a late goal that gets them a point more on the table. They aren't going to win the league but he's showing them, and himself, that he's not being held back by whatever it is that's plaguing him.

And it goes on for a few more weeks, he plays and they score and they move on. They hit the last leg of the Champions League and they're in the final for a third year running. He's riding high on the awe that comes from making into that final stage, they're so close he can taste it. They're so immersed in the excitement of their third chance at winning La Orejona that El Clasico barely registers that night.

Five days and forty-eight minutes of pure adrenaline later finds Cristiano gagging in a bathroom. He's not sure what's going on and he has half a mind to call someone for help because he's been trying to puke out his guts for ten minutes but nothing is coming out. The rest of the team is already lining up and Cristiano knows he has to join them even as all he'll be doing is sitting on the bench. He has to or else they'll know something is wrong and he can't, he just can't show weakness. 

So with great effort he stumbles out of the stall and towards the sinks. He splashes water on his face and swishes some in his mouth to try and rid himself of the acidic taste of bile. He straightens himself and marches out and straight into Gareth. The moment is tense as it stretches for too long but Gareth just stares at him. Neither says anything though it's obvious Gareth wants to say something. He opens his mouth and then closes it, he raises his hand and Cristiano flinches. 

He sighs and then tries instead for a smile, a little crooked but warm. He sidles up to Cristiano and gently bumps shoulders with him, "Let's go, they're waiting for you."

*~*~*~*

Watching Messi is always strange, a study in possibilities warped by envy that's fueled by a perceived public indifference for what Cristiano's accomplished, what Cristiano has overcome. Still it's an art show, fluid motion and speed pushed into the smallest spaces with incredible, unimaginable results. Watching Messi sprint across the pitch, faster then it should be possible, head down, foot forward, ball to the back of the net, Cristiano's breath catches. 

It's funny because all these past months he's felt a weight on his chest, heavy and immovable but as Leo Messi races into the arms of Luis Suarez, flashing the pale skin of his thighs as he wraps his legs around his friend, Cristiano feels light. 

That's funny, he thinks as he's hit with a bout of lightheadedness. That's weird.

*~*~*~*

He stares at the purple mess in the palm of his hands. It's rather small and gooey but he had hacked it up with tremendous effort and his throat feels cut up to hell. He feels a distant swell of something that he squashes immediately. He doesn't want to jump to conclusions. It could be anything, it isn't necessarily a part of his innards coming up in the middle of lunch prep. 

He tries not to think about it after he tosses it in the trash bin. He goes about his day, eats and works out and phones his mom and doesn't think about it at all. 

He's brushing his teeth at night when it happens again, a tickle followed by a discomfort followed by a cough that has him gasping for air and then in the sink the same gooey purple mess. 

So he turns and leaves, sits in the kitchen with a mug of tea and tries to breathe normally.

Twenty minutes later he returns and pushes the stopper down, turns on the water and watches the basin begin to fill. Eventually he turns the water off and watches as the mess at the bottom begins to dissolve. The water begins to turn a soft pink with weird bubbles of bile or spit off to one corner but at the bottom the purple lump floats about. 

Cristiano reaches in and runs his fingers over it, gentle to preserve whatever it is for examination, just enough to clean it off. 

He pulls it out of the water and stares.

He stares some more. 

Finally, "What the fuck?"

*~*~*~*

It's soft, velvet soft and less purple once washed from the weird mucus -and blood- coating.

Cristiano can't quite understand what it is but he knows it doesn't belong in his body so he places it atop a napkin and leaves it in his kitchen over night. He intends to have it looked at, he hopes to have an answer to what's been happening to him. 

When he presents it to his doctor the next day he's told they need to keep the sample for testing. 

Despite his patience he never gets a call about what it actually is as the league comes to an end. He's fine with it because he does manage to score another goal in the last game of the season. 

*~*~*~*

They win the Champions League and Cristiano is buzzing with excitement. He's happy, everyone around him is happy, the city is happy. Still his heart aches.

That night he coughs and coughs and coughs until an even larger lump makes its slimy way past his lips. In his hotel room he watches a flower blossom in his sink, floating in water, and he's overcome with horror. 

*~*~*~*

The World Cup arrives on the heels of their win in Kiev. He has little time to think of the implications of that flower. 

~~He knows.~~

He has a team to bolster and a title to chase, a nations' dream to shoulder. 

They start off strong, he makes a statement. He stands at the top and issues a challenge, a warning to all. He's come to win and take the title home. Four goals in a row for him and not a single problem until the day after their second match.

He sees the results of the day and before he knows it he's retching into the sink, bud after bud of wilted flowers rip from his throat. His eyes water and his stomach rolls and he wishes he didn't understand. 

But if course it's him, who else could it be _but_ him. There's never been someone so infuriating, so overwhelming, so mesmerizing. There's never been anyone who has permeated Cristiano's life like him. He's never coveted a person's innate skill, their attention, their time, no one but his. 

It hits him like a freight train, the acceptance of the tumultuous feelings he's always had for Leo Messi. It's the worst possible time to be forced to deal with his treacherous thoughts. He grips the edges of the sink until his knuckles turn white and he does his best to rebury the things he has never wanted to deal with.

He buckles down and tries to focus on Portugal and their goal and four days later sees the results of his lapse in attention. Minutes count down before Ricardo zooms one in and Cristiano celebrates like a man given new life. He has a purpose he reminds himself.

When the clock counts down and he's left without a goal he lets a single thought wander to the next day. 

Leo scores and the vice around his lungs eases a little. 

*~*~*~*

They lose. One more and they could have forced extra time, one more and it could have all ended differently. 

He checks when he's packing his things, couldn't before because he couldn't know, couldn't let himself get distracted. Leo's going home as well.

The thought doesn't sit well with him, because they could have both done better. He knows they both feel that they should have done better. 

He sits on the edge of his bed and coughs, a dry nasty thing that rattles his chest and makes him ache all over. The smooth, soft flower that catches in the back of his throat tumbles out after he gags. It's dark veins stick out against the lighter rounded petals and it's bright yellow center belies a terrible inevitable end. 

Cristiano crushes the flower in his hands and lets his head hang.

He has options, but none of them sound appealing. 

He thinks of his mother and his last girlfriend and he knows that ultimately things will end however he chooses them to end. 

He doesn't consider himself a coward. So he lays back and lets himself bask in his favorite memories of mischievous smiles at award ceremonies and intense competition. He thinks of Leo dashing across the pitch, a cool look in his eye, a ball at his feet. He thinks of all the looks they've shared on and off the pitch. The times he's made him smile and laugh and how he's always considered himself lucky for it.

He looks so alive in his memories, it makes Cristiano want to reach out and touch, take, taste. He wonders if his hands are calloused from their work outs and if Cristiano started now could he ever finish mapping all the scars and moles scattered across Leo's body. He wonders if his heart beats just as fast when he sees Cristiano score, as fast as Cristiano's when he sees Leo score. And then he's coughing, flowers choking him as he lays on his bed, pushing up his throat and Cristiano needs to get up or roll onto his side. He needs to do something because he knows he's dying, has been for who knows how long.

He coughs and chokes and finally sits up with fright clawing at him, sheer instinct to survive taking over. He wipes at his eyes, vision blurry, and his mouth, drool at the corners. 

There are flowers everywhere, they reek of filth and cling to Cristiano. His chest aches terribly, there's an awful taste in his mouth and he is finely attuned to his rattling breaths. 

He tries to stand up but doesn't have the strength, he looks at the mess around him and knows there is a countdown hanging over him. With a great sweep of his hand he throws the flowers closest to him onto the floor. He closes his eyes and sighs.

*~*~*~*

In Turin Cristiano's chest continues to rattle but as the days pass he coughs less and less. He hopes he made the right choice, he prays for it. The flowers in his chest continue to bloom but away from Leo they stagnate. As long as he clings to his memories his love will not die. 

As he watches Leo score a hat trick he knows that all he has done is put space between them, it's not a solution. He can't help himself, Leo has been the only one that's ever burrowed so deeply under his skin he's laid roots. 

Rubbing at his chest he knows he could get rid if it, of them, he could theoretically tear them out. He could pay to have each and every memory plucked from his mind, reset his life and move on. 

Ripping them out would be ripping out the flowers that only grew because his love is unrequited. 

He could and he should.

But he leans back on his sofa and replays Leo's third goal. He watches Leo smile and rubs his aching chest through his shirt. 

He should, but he won't.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Day 3- Angst. 
> 
> I love this trope and I wanted to try my hand at it, I'm not satisfied but I guess it's alright for my first try.
> 
> Flower meaning of Houndstongue- Tenacity


End file.
